


Whoever You Are Holding Me Now

by forthegenuine



Series: Phantom Limb [1]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Post-Mockingjay, Pre-Epilogue, Prosthesis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:27:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthegenuine/pseuds/forthegenuine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d heard about coal miners losing body parts in accidents, and despite having been amputated, some of them say they can still feel their missing appendages. Like they are haunted by their missing flesh, phantom limbs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whoever You Are Holding Me Now

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine, obviously. Just borrowing and applying artistic liberties, to flesh out an unhealthy curiosity as to how Peeta seemingly adjusts so well to losing his leg after the Games.

For thus, merely touching you, is enough…  
––Walt Whitman

  ****

>>>\------------->

**Whoever You are Holding Me Now**

 

01.  
He doesn’t know why he remembers, but coming from a district that depends on manual labor, it doesn’t surprise him that he does. He’d heard about coal miners losing body parts in accidents––fingers, hands, whole limbs––and despite having been amputated, some of them say they can still feel their missing appendages. Like they are haunted by their missing flesh, phantom limbs.

He lamentably thinks that given his hitherto sheltered life, he never would have imagined himself in such a predicament. He comforts himself with the idea that it could have been much worse. She saved his life, he affirms during their interview.

But now that the train speeds toward home, the raw truth––that his “new leg” is not working out so completely––seems to be emerging. And apparently other truths as well. He ruminates on her reluctant revelation, that the feelings she may have had during the Games might be as genuine as his now metal-and-plastic leg.

He doesn’t blame her, though, or anyone. (Well, maybe Cato. A little.) He knows he must move on now. He absent-mindedly rubs the length of the prosthetic leg under his trousers, as if trying to coax sensation out of it.

“Does it hurt?” Damn. Despite trying to keep her at a distance and the days of learned survivalist alertness in the arena, she still manages to sneak up on him. Ghost-like.

“No,” he replies tacitly. He doesn’t even look up at her, hoping that that one word could convey _please leave me alone_ , _let me lick my wounds_ , and _can’t you see I’ve made such a fool myself_ all at once. It does.

They are greeted by cameras at District Twelve’s station the next day. It isn’t until he numbly extends his hand for hers––one more time, for the audience––that he feels he is truly missing something.

 

02.  
On the mornings he wakes up in her bed, he doesn’t have to lift up the blanket to know there is tangle of intertwined limbs underneath. Her leg atop his, atop of hers, atop of his; at some point, he can’t even tell which of his legs is which.

Before Effie’s announcement that breakfast is ready wakes Katniss, he holds her a little more tightly in his arms, to which she sinks a little bit deeper. He doesn’t lift up the blanket, and instead he lets himself think that this feels almost real.

 

03.  
They drag him back to his cell after the broadcast. The competing furor of shiny and blurry images that bombard his mind is coupled by the throbbing pain on his nose, which he suspects is broken when they hit him right before the cameras cut away. The blood dripping down his chin confirms his suspicion, but he does nothing to wipe it away.

Sitting on a flimsy metallic Capitol bed, he brings his knees to his chest, and hugs both his knees, rocking himself to awareness. He can’t trust anything he remembers these days, because he feels like something is lost. Like one of the mechanical legs locked in the crook of his elbow.

He feels a ghostly sensation that the reason his real leg is missing has something to do with her. And he remembers he is supposed to hate her for it.

 

04.  
“I hear they’re letting you out of here soon.”

Sitting on a very different Capitol bed, he looks up to see Haymitch enter the room and take a seat across from him. “Yeah,” he nods. “A few weeks, maybe sooner.”

Haymitch raises his eyebrows quizzically at him, taking in what Peeta must imagine to be an odd sight.

“They’re giving me a new leg today,” he explains, gesturing to one of his empty, deflated pant legs, and the grimy, worn apparatus deserted on the floor next to his double-knotted shoe. He admits embarrassingly, “I guess I’m having a hard time letting go of this one.”

“Give it time. You’ll get used to the new one.”

“Yeah,” he accepts, gaze periodically dropping to his old leg, as if he is afraid it might vanish into thin air. “That’s what they tell me.”

They sit in a kind of silence that hangs between two people who have much to say to each other. Peeta searches his memory for anything he might have said or done to have hurt Haymitch while he was hijacked or out of his mind, but he can’t think of anything. By the time he decides to simply issue his former mentor a blanket apology for _everything_ , Haymitch stands up.

“Well, kid,” he says abruptly, “see you back in Twelve.” He leaves without waiting for a response.

Later, as the doctor is fitting him with his new prosthesis, Peeta smiles inwardly and shakes his head imperceptibly when it dawns on him that he hasn’t yet told anyone of his decision to call District Twelve (and a certain girl on fire) home again.

 

05.  
One hot Sunday during summer, she takes him to the lake because, she says, it used to be a “special treat,” and she wants to make it so again. With him. (And a picnic basket packed with extra cheese buns, please.)

She persuades him to leave his prosthetic leg ashore while they swim, since they discovered that the bottom of the lake is muddier than she remembers. It takes some manner of wheedling––because if he had to admit it, he’d say he still feels insecure without it––but he eventually concedes. The contraption is abandoned, leaning casually against a rock along the embankment. He glances at it one last time, before he lets Katniss help him to the water.

Between the first tentative swim strokes (he surprises himself that he remembers how) and the game of tag they invented (in which the loser has to give the winner a kiss; he makes sure he wins), and all the food in the basket enjoyed, he completely forgets about his leg until it’s time to go home.

“While we were in the water, it felt like I had both of them,” he confesses as he picks up his prosthetics. “Does that sound crazy?”

She kneels down and fastens his leg with a tenderness that reminds him of her careful ministrations a lifetime ago. “No,” she replies.

He takes her hand, and she entwines their fingers as they walk back. This day has been so un-shiny and un-blurry that he doesn’t need to ask if this is real or not real.

He doesn’t know why he remembers, but it doesn’t surprise him that he does. People do survive despite scars and missing flesh, but remain haunted by phantom limbs. He has been plagued by ghosts long enough; he wants to be alive. There is only one thing he is certain of, even before he lost his leg to the Games, and through all that has happened after. He distills its scope into one sentence, and hopes she understands his meaning.

“I feel _whole_ when I’m with you.”

Never one for words, but always fond of his, she reaches up to touch his face lovingly and whispers in agreement, “Me, too.”

When their lips meet, his phantoms are banished, making way for life.

 

>>>\------------->

  **end.**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd appreciate any feedback you can give. Also, I'm on Tumblr: **forthegenuine.tumblr.com**!


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